


Red Haven's on Fire

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Incest, M/M, West Wing Title Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-14
Updated: 2007-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The way Dean figures it, everybody lost something, and some people lost everything, but he's still got all he needs right here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Haven's on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for luzdeestrellas's [**Supernatural-West Wing Title Challenge**](http://luzdeestrellas.livejournal.com/114077.html). Also betaed by her.

The town is all brown dirt and rust-colored sky, like something out of one of those old cowboy movies their dad used to watch. The wind kicks up the dust, makes it dance and swirl like a dervish through the empty streets. It feels like the edge of the world, or maybe the surface of the moon, bitter and barren, and too much like Cold Oak for Dean's comfort. He can tell the resemblance isn't lost on Sam, who's twitchier than normal, the skin over his knuckles pulled white from how tight he's holding his gun.

Dean reaches out, puts a hand on the back of Sam's neck, squeezes lightly in reassurance. Sam ducks his head and grins, tension easing from the line of his shoulders, his stance subsiding to alert instead of really fucking paranoid.

It's summer--at least, Dean thinks it is (nowadays, there are only two seasons--winter and not)--but a chill lingers even beyond what's become normal, settles right down into the marrow of his bones and makes him shiver. He doesn't need the EMF meter to know there are ghosts here, can feel them in the prickle of his skin, the buzz in his blood, second nature to him after so many years.

The ghosts are different now--less angry, more scared and lonely. So many are wandering lost, unburied and unmourned, and the low whine of their keening echoes across the empty land and sky for miles, even during what passes for daylight now.

He and Sam sweep the area, pile the dead on what was once the high school baseball field, the grass as dead and brown as the dirt now, and then dig a shallow trench around them. The ghosts gather to watch, the weight of their sadly hopeful gazes oppressive on Dean's skin. Few of them fight anymore; most wait with the mournful patience of eternity for someone like the Winchesters to come along and send them home.

Sam pours salt into the trench, then onto the bodies. Dean adds some accelerant, then tosses the lit matches deliberately, one after another before the flames can singe his fingers. The bodies are a couple years old now, all moisture leached away, and they catch quickly. Dean sprinkles some sage over the fire, the pungent scent familiar and comforting over the stench of the bodies. He wonders, sometimes, if Sam still prays, and if he prays at these moments. Dean knows the words--has spent too much time in cemeteries and funeral homes not to have heard prayers for the dead--but he's never been a praying man, and it doesn't seem like the end of the world is a good time to start.

The ghosts light up, haloed in fire, and then shimmer out of existence as their bodies burn to ash.

An old woman smiles at Dean as the flames take her, face beatific before it disappears in a puff of smoke, and Dean feels his eyes sting, though if Sam mentions it later, he'll say it was the stench and the smoke and the dust. Sam will smile and shake his head, will know he's lying, but that's all right. Sam feels it, too, probably more than Dean ever will, the gratitude of the departing, the peace that settles when they're gone.

So he's not a praying man, but he still thinks, _requiescat in pace_ when they're done. It's all he hopes for himself one day.

This is how they spend the majority of their time now. There are still creatures to hunt, and demons to dispossess, but mostly they tend the dead, help them move on.

Missouri says they've got a calling, and Sam jokes sometimes about becoming priests of Anubis, draws hieroglyphics on Dean's skin with fingers and tongue when they lie together in their sleeping bags, but they're both solemn as they wait for the fire to die. They bury what's left in silence, the wind calm now, though the cold lingers still. While Sam is seeding the ground with protective herbs, Dean carves an ankh over the grave, and adds more salt to the circle around it, so anyone who comes upon it later will know the dead have been laid to rest, and where.

They forage, though there isn't much left to find. Occasionally, they hit pay dirt--bottled water or canned goods, the occasional full tank of gas. What they can't use, they'll trade along the way. It makes Dean laugh sometimes--all those years hustling pool and running scams, and they're reduced to a barter economy now. Of course, now everyone's aware of what's out there, and what they do to fight it, and welcomes their knowledge and expertise, so they don't often go without. Salt, gas, ammo, and food are usually all provided from whatever surplus is available in the strongholds they find along the way, in payment for the services they render. Dean's still not used to getting paid for the job, and he always tries to have something else to offer, just in case.

They never stay in one place for too long, though, too used to being on the road and too uncomfortable in the company of others to take more than a few days' rest occasionally, usually when supplies are low or one of them is injured.

The sky is darkening, and even though they've cleansed the area, it's not particularly safe after nightfall. After they've found what little the ruins have to offer, they set up camp for the night--it's at least three days' ride to the nearest settlement, and the major roads are still clogged with rusting cars, so they've gotten used to sleeping rough. At least it's not raining or ashing today, so they can bed down under the cloudy sky instead of having to set up the tiny tent that makes Dean feel like he's trapped inside a canvas bag.

He digs the fire pit and cooks dinner while Sam carves a devil's trap in the ground around their sleeping bags, and circles it with salt.

When they're done eating, Dean adds a shot of whiskey to their mugs of coffee to help ward off the chill, and they sit by the fire and shoot the shit, shoulders bumping when they laugh or need to make a point. They know most of each other's stories by now, told and retold them until truth and tale are one and the same; occasionally, they'll tell one the other hasn't heard--something from the hazy golden past of life before hunting, or from the years Sam was at Stanford, painful secrets unfolding now like the pages of their father's journal, edges worn smooth by time, no longer sharp enough to draw blood.

This isn't one of those nights, though, and Dean pulls out the deck of cards, instead. They play until Dean's stuck with corpse detail, and the next two rounds of laundry, and Sam's won another few hours behind the wheel. Dean mutters about low down dirty cheaters but Sam just smiles innocently and says, "I learned from the best." Dean pretends to still be annoyed, but he can't keep from grinning and cuffing the back of Sam's head in affectionate pride.

As the fire burns low, they have one last belt of whiskey, undiluted by coffee this time, and then crawl into their sleeping bags, zipped together so they can huddle for warmth. There are rare clear patches of sky visible, and Dean can see stars overhead, pinpricks shining in the darkness.

Sam's hands are cold when they slide up underneath Dean's t-shirt to glide along the skin of his chest and belly, and his breath is warm against Dean's neck when he laughs at Dean's shiver. His hands are warm by the time he shoves their jeans down and wraps a hand around Dean's dick, and Dean's shivering for a completely different reason.

Dean sucks in a ragged breath and says, "Fuck, and it's my turn to do the laundry, huh?"

Sam laughs against the nape of Dean's neck and says, "I can stop, if you want."

Dean wraps his hand around Sam's, encouraging him to stroke harder, faster, and grinds back against him. "Nah, I'll deal," he says as blithely as he can, when what he really means is, Don't you fucking dare. Sam laughs again in understanding, and skims his teeth over the tendon in Dean's neck, tongue following to soothe away the sting. With a low moan, Dean comes, white-hot pleasure shuddering through him in waves. Sam's still rubbing against him, hips jerking off-rhythm as he gets close, and then he spatters Dean's ass and thighs with come. Dean turns his head, captures Sam's mouth in a kiss, stealing the brief syllable of his own name from Sam's tongue.

Sam's already half-asleep, face tucked into the crook of Dean's shoulder, hips still plastered to Dean's ass. Dean knows he should wake him, get cleaned up and zipped up, but he's feeling pretty fucked out himself. He wipes his hand sticky on his t-shirt and uses the tails of Sam's flannel to clean up as best he can before he falls asleep, the steady rhythm of Sam's breath against his skin, and Sam's hand resting protectively on his belly.

They're up at first light, and Sam, predictably, bitches about the crusty state of his jeans while Dean heats water to wash with over the fire. They change and pack up, quick and efficient, the routine familiar, almost comforting. Dean shoves their soiled clothes into the laundry bag and thinks wistfully of every motel they ever stayed at that had a laundry room. He hates doing the wash by hand, figures it can wait, and in the meantime, maybe he can convince Sam to take it off his hands.

"Saddle up, Sammy," he says, "we're burning daylight."

Sam squints against the brightening overcast and grimaces, slinging his duffel into the trunk. He folds himself into the passenger seat, and tucks a rolled up jacket against the window so he can go back to sleep while Dean drives.

Dean slides in behind the wheel and starts the engine, the familiar rumble the sound of home, still sweet after all these years. They head off slowly down the cracked and potholed road, and Dean starts singing the "Alabama Song" under his breath.

It's a good life, at the end of the world, not that different from the one they were living before. Some people might find that sad, but Dean's never been one of them. The way he figures it, everybody lost something, and some people lost everything, but Dean's still got all he needs right here--Sam at his side, a trunk full of weapons, and a world full of evil to fight.

end

~*~


End file.
